Handyman Spy
by FluffySpook
Summary: Ruth decides to redecorate her house. Harry decides to help. Mid Series 8 fluff.
1. Chapter 1

**_So I've set up permanent residence in denial camp and will continue to write fluff as long as it can detract me from exam work._**

**_This one's set mid Series 8. Enjoy. :)_**

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><p>He first notices the anomalous matt pale green substance on her collarbone when he perhaps should be looking somewhere else, such as her face, as she gives an account of the LakeYard bombings. As she paces the top of the meeting room he can only assume she's taking his puzzled appearance as a reaction to the nature of their latest threat. Which is fair enough given it involves multiple suicide bombers, kidnappings, and murders.<p>

When she finishes he reels off the orders to the rest of the Section and is left behind – as per usual though this time unintentionally – alone with Ruth as she collects her folders to move out of the meeting room lastly. As he stands she looks at him and offers a smile, routine really, and only stops when she becomes aware of his fixation on her neck area.

"Harry?" she quizzes, making an attempt to peer down at herself in the hope that she might establish whatever it is he's found so intriguing. "You alright?"

"I'm sorry Ruth," he explains, eyes still unmoving, "But it's somewhat distracting. Mainly because I can't determine what it is." He squints a little and takes two steps forward – close enough to send the heat rising to her cheeks. "It looks like... paint."

"What does?"

He nods to her, "That does. On your collarbone. The pastely green smudge."

Then before she sees and before he registers his hand, his fingers find her skin and a wide thumb spreads across it, setting a forest of goose bumps lining her shoulders, neck and back. Instantly her eyes close as he meets her skin, some sort of fire lit in the space between them. They become hot rapidly and quite unexpectedly but unaware of the magnitude of the effect they're having on each other. Though he knows for a fact that he hides it better than she does, and removes his hand as quickly as it was placed there, subconsciously leaning backwards as the body language of guilt takes hold. A quick breath escapes her, a change in her tone,

"Oh – yes, that... yes it probably _is_ paint; I'm redecorating my lounge."

"Before you go to work in the morning?" he teases. And she swears he almost winks.

"I had a spare ten minutes this morning," she shrugs, "Paint was out, thought I'd just touch up a patch I'd missed last night. It's a bit of a nightmare though," she sighs and loves how his face becomes suddenly serious when she's anything other than content, "I'm trying to get it finished before my mother comes down this weekend, but it's a mess. I've still got three walls to do." She pauses as the cogs churn, "What day is it today?"

"Thursday."

"Oh God." She dips, biting her lip. "I can't finish it in two days. Two _evenings_."

It takes him less than one second to set a proposal.

"Can I help with it?" he says. And it's incredible; the eyes that meet his there hold the same surprise, ecstasy, as those that stared at him when he asked her to dinner four years ago. Her face cracks into a smile. A small voice crawls it's way from her throat to her mouth '_no, it's fine, I couldn't possibly ask you to_' but something quashes it before it spills from her tongue. A greater need, or a want (she can't tell which now), takes hold and unbelievably, she nods.

To which he nods back – delighted.

"Umm, yes, I don't see why not. Great," she beams, "That's... that'd be great. Thank you." Her embarrassment at the rose in her cheeks forces her eyes to fall to the table while his press into her features.

"Good. I was worried for a moment there you'd claim it was manageable for the sake of saving me some hard labour."

"Ha. No, it'd be much appreciated if you have the time... if you really want to help," she adds.

"Of course. Shall I pop round tonight then?"

"Okay. I'll cook us dinner?"

Quite a leap. Quite a conversation shift.

With oh so many implications, none of which he signifies he has registered, even though he has.

"Free dinner," he chuckles, "Sounds like a good deal to me. What sort of time is best?"

"Whenever. Depends what time we finish today. I don't want to pressure you; the day's still young, you never know what might happen this afternoon and if you feel you'd really rather not, then I don't mind if you'd prefer to get an early night... at... home..."

Her sentence trails as he pads closer again. Now, they're in Havensworth; he's wearing that look. She can't see his gold tie or black blazer, the meeting room that surrounds them, only that casual and tired lusty eyed man that stood before her on that fateful night. The swallow she takes echoes around her head but he's still smiling and offering everything he can - his time, his effort, his affection.

It's what this beginning level of affection could turn to that unnerves her. And excites her too beyond anything she can really say.

"I'll come over as soon as I can," he purrs.

Remarkable. How can he make a discussion about redecorating so bloody erotic.

She struggles for a reply, words catching by the delighted shivers coursing through her nervous system.

"Okay," she manages, eventually, still pressing the files closer to her body by the heartbeat, "Is there anything you'd like me to cook specifically?"

He shrugs with a casual shake of the head.

"I'll eat anything, as it probably wont surprise you to know. Up to you. You're head chef. It's very kind of you to cook."

"It's very kind of you to offer a hand for the painting."

They smile and she shifts to leave and walk back into what feels like a distant reality at her desk.

"Alright," she says, "See you tonight then."

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><p><em><strong>More soon. Fluff approaching, with Harry in a t-shirt. (But what colour people? WHAT COLOUR?)<strong>_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Well I'm absolutely overwhelmed by the response to chapter one. Twenty-one reviews! What is this, Christmas day? Thank you so much everyone. It's encouraging to see some of us heartbroken Spookies are still about. **_

_**Majority wise you were in favour of the blue t-shirt. Good choice my friends. Gem6 and Mamzalini, I'm somewhat tempted to acquiesce to your suggestion that Harry turns up shirtLESS, however, I'm obliged to maintain at least a minor level of plausibility for now... because sooner or later it's going to get ridiculous. :D If you know me, you know Harry will miraculous loose his clothing at some point in the very near future.**_

_**Oh and don't despair just yet Nat; Chapter 1 was a K rating because it needn't have been anything else. It'll change soon, I can promise you that ;)**_

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><p>It never occurred to her at any level that he would be dressed in anything other than his work clothes. And in fact, as she clambers down the ceiling ladder having noticed him walking up her drive, for a brief moment she doesn't recognise who he is. Yet she smiles to herself and the butterflies set up to work havoc in her stomach. She accepts there and then that that's a fact that will probably never go away.<p>

Before he has chance to knock she's opened the door with more enthusiasm than she's aware of, greeting him with a smile he knows he never see's enough of. The warmth is appreciated no end as he enters her home, the food already cooking it would seem, mixed with the sharp acrylic smell of paint. An odd combination, there's no denying, but his first thought is not of its strength but of the domesticity it creates so naturally. Ruth only amplifies the fact with her appearance; black jeans and a burgundy fitted t-shirt splashed with that pale green, hair tied impeccably, and grubby trainers that have never seen a treadmill but have evidently seen other paint at some point. And with all of it she looks beautiful.

"I brought this," he holds out a bottle as they stand themselves in her hallway. White Burgundy.

Well if that's not an incredibly unsubtle hint, she doesn't know what is.

The smile still hasn't faded so she takes it with a soft chuckle as he beams too.

"Good choice. I haven't had that for years."

Years. Always sounds painful. Has it really been _years_?

She notions through the hall, past the sitting room that resembles a bomb site, and into the dining room and adjoining kitchen where she places it in fridge, allowing him to take in the detail of her house. Not that there is an unusual amount of detail _to_ take in, but the smile he wears is enough to tell her he's found something right, logical maybe, of standing here. Like he fits. _He could stay here_, she thinks, _we could have started living here so many years ago_.

Equally caught in exactly the same daydream, it takes the sudden hour countdown of the seven o'clock news on the radio to tug them both back. He finds himself suddenly shy and slips his hands into his dark blue jean pockets. Before he can explain something he technically doesn't need to Ruth smirks and steps closer, though it's unclear if she's completely conscious of doing so or not.

"You look nice in a t shirt," she says unexpectedly, gesturing as if he's unaware of the tight and wholly alien feel of the material hugging his chest and stomach. And if ever he was going to blush, he had prayed it wouldn't be now. But God wasn't listening and he flicks his embarrassed gaze away.

"Oh, this old thing," he pinches the side of the light blue material.

"And I want to comment on the jeans," she continues with substantially more confidence than she feels, "But I'm not sure what to say."

_Other than you look unbelievably sexy_.

"Well I can say the same of you," he replies quickly. "You look nice in jeans and t-shirt."

"I'll admit I feel a little odd," she dips. He chuckles,

"You're telling me. These clothes don't even fit properly."

She wont protest.

She wont admit she loves it either.

"They're fine," she smiles, "They're..."

"Distracting it would seem."

"Ha, yes... er – drinks!"

It's obvious he's laughing as she suddenly leaps from the conversation and disappears into the kitchen. To compose herself as much as to retrieve a couple of glasses. Even when she asks what it is he'd actually like to drink, she does so from around the corner, making a point of not returning so he can't melt her into a pile of mushy, hot and incoherent mess of a woman.

"Would you like to open the wine now?" she calls, and gets only a soft chuckle in response. "Harry."

"I don't mind Ruth. Perhaps you should have something cold."

Silence.

And then, only because he can't see the colossal smile,

"I imagine I will do later."

Still she doesn't emerge, but waits, with a bitten lip. And he waits too until he decides that if the flirtatious tension is going to become a considerable part of the evening, then it needs to be done in stages. Either that, or completely loose self control.

"Wine is great," he calls back, "Thank you."

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><p>The two sides they've created for themselves – professional and hopelessly in love – are still adopted, even as they work as 'friends' in her home. By the time she introduced him to the task in hand she's already dizzy on what's probably a mixture of adrenalin, nerves, excitement and wine. He stands, one hand in his pocket, observing the room as she shifts the ladder over slightly and searches for the second paintbrush under numerous layers of dusty furniture covers.<p>

"I can see why you needed the help," he says, "It's actually quite a large room isn't it."

"Yes, that corner," she nods to her right, "Forms part of the extension. The previous owner had his piano there but it's a bit of an empty space for me really. I was thinking about buying some nice furniture for it. A cabinet or something. What do you think?"

He can't ever voice what his real thought in that moment is.

They could have been. They _should_ be. Husband and wife, planning, working, decorating, _living_ in this house together. He knows for a fact that he would have chosen this colour for this room with its large low window and paintings on opposite walls, books shelves, sofa in the left hand corner, television to the right.

"Yes," he says quietly. "That'd look great. A good use of space."

"Mm. Oh, here it is," she locates the paintbrush and hands it to him triumphantly.

"Right then," he places his glass down by the corner, next to hers and takes in a 360 degree view of the room. "Where would you like me to start?"

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><p><em><strong>Apologies for this chapter not erupting with fluff... but y'know, gotta 'set the scene' and all that. ;) More soon! <strong>_


	3. Chapter 3

_**I'm still getting over the number of reviews for this fic. It's a personal record in relation the amount of chapters. Thank you ever so much :)**_

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><p>"You know Harry, at some point I'm going to have to say <em>missed a bit<em>."

They're about fifteen minutes in and he's stretching awkwardly towards the ceiling, set on reaching a corner obscured slightly by the fact that the roof slopes and the ladder is blocked by the mantle piece from moving any closer. She almost told him to stop before he fell off, but miraculously and after a considerable amount of growling, he reaches it.

"I suppose you'll be re-layering the ceiling at some point?" he asks as she busies herself with possibly the easiest area of wall below.

"Probably."

"Well that's what people usually do isn't it, but looking at yours I'd say it's unnecessary really."

"You think?" She looks up.

"It's in good nick. For a ceiling."

She doesn't know why that sentence amuses her but it's not as if they were obliged to talk about much else. Anything else is liable to be... edging towards the unknown. Which ironically she would quite like to explore.

He begins to step down and is about to offer starting on the opposite wall when his phone rings. Though she doesn't mean to, her expression alters suddenly to serious and she stares at him. Technically the caller isn't interrupting anything but the fact that it feels as if they are only tells her one thing.

He looks surprised when he reads the caller I.D, Ruth watching for answers, paintbrush stationary.

"It's Ros," he explains and holds her eye as if waiting for advice. So she nods, and he answers, still standing on the ladder. "Ros."

The cause of the call, Ruth determines quickly, is not a matter of national security according to Harry's body language. He steps off the ladder and leaning on the mantle piece, rolls his eyes.

"Yes - yes, really I'm fine. No... signal's touch and go here. Visiting..." his wide eyes meets Ruth, "I'm visiting a friend... What? Well I'd call Ruth a friend, yes, wouldn't you? Ros... Work obviously, the LakeYark... I know. She had some files she wanted me to go over. No. We're both fine, thank you," he see's Ruth curse under her breath, "Well if you don't hear back from Lucas before ten o' clock call me back and I'll come in. Philip Kayhard is a predictable as the national lottery Ros, just be patient, I'm sure Lucas is fine. Alright, I'm bringing him in tomorrow anyway. Ok, yes. Bye."

Dry mouthed and abandoning her paintbrush in the tin as soon as he hangs up, she croaks,

"All alright?"

He slips the phone away with his face twisting slowly to a concerned gaze,

"Lucas hasn't checked in."

"Was he due to?"

"Not at any specific time, just sometime this evening."

"Well Ros has a right to be concerned, given the nature..."

"Yes," he sighs, clearly tired and resting properly against the mantle piece now. "I know."

He knew work that constantly anchors down their outside lives would interrupt them at some point. And he was fully aware that when it did, he'd just feel drained afterwards. What he feels now is blatant evidence of it. Despite her sanguine tone he can't help but tremble at the fact that he will never be able to escape from his job. Not really.

She doesn't look so anxious though, standing there, half an arms reach away from his paint splattered chest. If anything she looks hopeful. For Lucas, for Ros, maybe, and certainly for him. In a second too fast to register he realises they're staring in the same way they stare at stars, and she's somehow moved closer, like she's glided. If he could reach out now his hand would be resting on the curve of her back. He'd do almost anything to reach out and smash the wall between them.

Her nervous throat clearing stops him. Her dip of the head, her adorable tuck of loose brunette hair behind her ear.

She could be thinking so many things, different ways and reasons to bring them closer. He's sure she is.

But as always she finds a way out as if she can't bare it. Like she wants to run. She loves him more than she wants anything else but sense (whatever sense there is) draws her away – a jealous rip tide. He can't believe it's solely self restraint. It must be something else. She can't hide her nerves from him but she can hide her reasons effortlessly.

His arm raises and the heat between them sets in to tingle around his fingers. He notices how her blue eyes trace his movements with faultless accuracy, but never tell if she will hold him or if she'll suddenly step away.

The space goes cold, his arm falls in the four seconds that lasted a thousand years.

All sincerity and screaming desire dissolves at his feet.

"I'm going to check on dinner," she states, hurriedly, then leaves.

It's just Havensworth all over again.

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><p><em><strong>Yes, I <strong>__**am**__** dragging this out as long as possible. More soon! **_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Longer this time as a thank you for everyone who's continued reading/reviewing. Not my favourite chapter of all time **_**_but in original FluffySpook style i.e. totally implausible. Enjoy!_**

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><p>The required checks take all of ten seconds much to her annoyance. Without a real reason to stay in the kitchen, she busies herself with mundane and unimposing tasks - re-arranging plates, lining already set cutlery, washing and drying a mug thoroughly. Out of politeness she figures he won't follow her. He wont pressure her. But as soon she enters that room again the temperature will soar, eyes will collide and plead making it painful.<p>

Perhaps then it would just be easier to embrace it; no-one ever solved anything by running away.

That, and she feels awful for abandoning him so abruptly. It's not self control if it's just jumping at the decisive moment. He's waited long enough and so has she. The sink water reflects her guilty glare and forces her away towards the door.

Where's he's standing, watching.

So much for not following her.

"Ruth," he starts at once with an apology almost carved into his features. This is almost the most uncomfortable she's ever seen him. It's heartbreaking.

"Harry I'm sorry."

"I... what?" He doubts his ears, "_You're_ sorry?"

"Yes. I know we... we can't, I can't..."

_Talk. Put three words together. Justify anything_.

"Look," he offers, "For a bit of painting this is all a bit... tense. I don't understand why I can't explain myself, or find an appropriate ending for this sentence, but I want to apologise for making you feel awkward. And don't deny that," he adds sharply seeing her lips part, "Do you have any idea how quickly you left that room?"

She smiles and feels a catching weight lift from somewhere.

"I have a pretty good idea. But I really did need to check on dinner."

"So I understand. All ok?" he looks over her shoulder. And on cue, to the nanosecond, his stomach releases a fearsomely thunderous growl. She gawps and equals the roar with a healthy outburst of laughter, to which he joins, somewhat embarrassed.

"Blimey Harry!"

"Sorry..." he holds a hand to his belly as if it could silence the demand and looks away.

"Not at all," she chirps, "But it'll be about half an hour, forty-five before we actually sit down to eat. Can I get you something to nibble? Er, crisps or..." she pads to the kitchen, "something..."

"No no, thank you," he follows, "I'm not going to fade away am I."

"Well - "

"There's no comeback to that Ruth. Come on," he calls before walking away, "Let's get this room finished."

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><p>Easier said then done. The story of their lives.<p>

They settle into a concentrated but comfortable silence. As she touches up the base of a now completed wall, Harry decides the next ceiling corner needs tackling before they sit down to eat. Originally she makes no protest, allowing him to place the ladder by the furthest wall and clamber up until he bangs his head on the roof. Even then she has to stifle a laugh when he curses and thumps the side of the ladder. His stomach snarls in decided agreement of his frustration and Ruth checks the time.

Plenty of it left, which it quite a delightful rarity.

By the time he's started to administer the unusually spreadable paint, she's finished with the skirting board just in time to see the slapstick comical disaster unfold.

"Harry be careful," she paces forward and grips the base of the aluminium ladder, creaking as he shifts his weight to one side, on one foot. How can you say 'you'll tip it' without implying something much more insulting? He'd probably take it well but even so, she bites her lip as he stretches further and swallows the warning.

Having said that, it isn't all bad. She could ask this of him more often if he'd be willing to wear the same clothes he noted didn't fit properly. The surprisingly clean t-shirt abandons his jean waistband and rides upwards, carried by his shoulders as he reaches further, exposing fresh smooth skin of his hips and back. Some small part of her mind make's a vague remark about owing him privacy; stop gaping. He never gazed at her clothing that hugs her figure.

So much for self restraint. He couldn't get much sexier.

"I can't..." he tries, stepping one rung up to the top and bending his knee's, "Reach..."

"Harry watch the paint!"

But what good are words when a fully grown man is hurling towards you from a height, the ladder crashing down and the paint spilling freely through the air.

"_Shit!_"

He falls from the top step, the ladder topples to one side at too awkward an angel to control. As he makes a frantic attempt to leap off with the aim of refraining from colliding into Ruth, his right knee's contacts the paint tin and brings it down with him, above him, and a fresh thick layer smoothers his t-shirt completely. Through a miraculous coincidence or well placed reaction, Ruth makes an attempt to catch him. It is the preparation for the impact of his full weight smashing into hers that prevents any real pain when they hit the ground with a colossal and fantastic THUD.

An intense_ ooff!_ bursts from his throat but she doesn't match it. Her words are taken by frenzied breathing, which she bites suddenly at the metal crash of the ladder collapsing beside them. Against her chest the cold of the paint sets in, seeping through from his t-shirt to hers. Though the reason behind their crushed bodies is hardly what she'd longed for, let alone ever envisaged, to have his heart hammering against her now is enough to drug the slow ache at the back of her head sustained from banging against the floor. The pain caused to him is clear too; he makes no urgent attempt to alleviate his weight that suddenly squashes her, though she admits it's hardly a regretful thing.

In fact he says absolutely nothing. In a groan carried heavily by distress, he eventually enforces movement to his muscles and raises his head from her shoulder until their lips brush and they start to breathe for each other. Though he hadn't noticed when they fell, her hands are gripping the material on his back and his have slipped to the back of her head. It's wild, sudden, terrifying. She can almost taste the –

He rolls off. She shoots upwards.

With shaky arms he sits himself upright, slightly coiled into his own chest when something electrifyingly sharp courses through it.

"Harry." She reaches for him, quite extraordinarily uninjured. Heaving themselves upwards she takes more of his weight than he does of hers. When they recall this in twenty years, laughs too numerous to count will be shared, she's sure of that. The hopeless couple dazed and wearing more paint than the walls. But right now it seems serious to a grave level. The first sign of blood makes her jump slightly. Soon though she's able to help smudge the first trickles of a nosebleed from his face and offer a smile, which slowly, he returns as the pulsating bruising ebbs slightly.

"Ruth I'm so sorry. Are you ok?" he asks and gives a soft squeeze of her upper arm.

"I'm fine. Here," she carefully wipes more blood from his upper lip.

"You tried to catch me."

"I... yes."

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Harry really I'm absolutely fine." Her gaze drops to his chest, "Couldn't say the same for you though..."

"It's just a nosebleed."

"No I was referring to your t-shirt. You're soaked through!"

That, he hasn't noticed. No wonder it suddenly felt so heavy and cold, pasting itself against his body. He makes a brief indifferent tug at it,

"I'll be fine, really, it's - "

"You need to take it off."

"What?"

"I'll put it in to wash straight away. Take it off."

"Ruth I didn't bring any spare..."

A dismissive hand flashes in front of his face,

"I'm sure I can find something upstairs somewhere. If the paint dries you'll never get it out. Oh it's all on your trousers too... I'm sorry Harry."

"I'm not taking my trousers off!"

"I shouldn't have asked you round to help. I... I'm sorry."

"It was my own fault," he shrugs, "I've wasted all your paint as well," he observes the empty tin, incongruous now lying in the middle of the room, the last of its contents dribbling from its mouth. Ignoring the fact that actually that really was her last tin, she paces to the door and commands,

"Go upstairs, have a shower."

"But – "

"Dinner will be ready in ten."

Exactly as before she leaves for him to swallow his words alone. What she doesn't know is this that time, he's found from somewhere the confidence and logic to argue his case. He wont let her run. He'll make something of this night whether she likes it or not. What is there to lose? It couldn't _get_ more ridiculous.

"Ruth! _RUTH!_"

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><p><em><strong>More if you'd like...?<strong>_


	5. Chapter 5

_**M rated for language! and... other things.**_

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><p>"Wait!"<p>

He almost crashes into her – again – when he charges from the room and meets her leaning against the wall right outside. The thick gloom of the hallway smoothers her clearer features but he reads solely in her posture that the end of the tether has been reached. What he doesn't know is that it can't be regarded as a bad thing. Not for what he has in mind.

He wants to finish it. In tears, in exile, in bed... or possibly even not in bed. Alone or with her. The endless indefinite has to stop tonight; a decade is long enough to wait.

"Look at me Ruth."

She notes how the words are forced through gritted teeth but denies him the request, keeping her head against the wall with slumped shoulders. For a short moment he waits before he changes tactics.

"Please could you show me how your shower works."

Of course, she doesn't believe him. Even if he wasn't a spy and didn't sound so genuine, she still could never bring herself to believe that a grown man would struggle to operate a shower. If there's a hidden agenda – and blatantly there is – then she wants to know what it would mean for her. Curiosity killed the cat and all, but as she leads him upstairs she can see he's smiling rather openly. Entering the bathroom they're hit with a powerful wall of freezing air, which then just adds to the bizarreness of what follows.

She pulls over the shower curtain, still with her paint decorated back to him, and rotates the hot tap.

"See, it's pretty straightforward," she explains adding a dribble of cold water to the flow, "Take about a minute to warm up then just flick this lever to the right and it'll run from the shower head."

His t-shirt lands, _splat_, in the bath tub in front of her.

She jolts round almost dislocating her neck.

_Fuck_.

"Ah," he swallows. "I was hoping for a slightly more enthused reaction than that."

Her eyes couldn't stretch much wider as his heart rate couldn't pound any faster. It's not shock, not quite. It's a strange bright and alarmed desire that settles on her face.

He sighs heavily, "Oh come on. It can't be all that bad."

"Harry I'm afraid I'm genuinely serious when I say this," her voice wobbles a little, which unnerves him further. With curious eyes she gives a frightened whisper, "Are you trying to _seduce_ me?"

"Er..." It would probably help if she'd look at his face. "I suppose that's one word for it."

"Right, yes. O – of course."

"Well let me know if it's working."

"Sorry – " she snaps away for a moment, the frustration channelled to her hands as she yanks the taps off. A moment with closed eyes while he waits, hands now slipped in a shameful stance away in his jean pockets. "Sorry. What are we doing Harry?"

"_I'm_ making an unseccusful attempt to seduce you, sort of. But it's a bit deeper than that obviously. I just think that if we're going to get anywhere with ourselves then why not face it straight on. Ten years is a long time of beating round the bush Ruth, and if I'm being honest, I'm heartily sick of not knowing where I stand with you. I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable – "

"Well you failed in epic style I'm afraid!"

"But it's true. Would it be too flippant to say – here's what I'm offering, take it or leave it?"

"It?"

"Me!" he gives an exaggerated shrug of his bare shoulders. Then steps twice forward so her calves are against the bath tub and his open chest now presses into hers. Part of him just feels shameful despite the adoration flickering in his eyes that decides their fate for them. She raises a frozen hand to his cheek like it's pulled there by something she can't quite place, "Ruth..."

"I'll be honest," she smiles, "I think your seduction technique's working Harry. Strange though it is."

She declares the words as their lips brush. Closer, then closer still. The hand on his cheek strengthens its hold and cups his stubble splashed jaw. Half a moment later they connect, suddenly, brutally. His arms support her back as she drinks him in and quickly fashions a rhythm. His tongue probes her lips and they separate like a floodgate at once, but somehow she's managing to rein control over this. Numerous times he has speculated and questioned how they would play it out in the first time and needless to say it's not what he expected. No human mind could imagine something this perfect, for someone as imperfect as himself. To admit that every touch reminds him of a day he wasted would almost destroy what they now have. It comes so close. He nearly cries it to her; 'I can't do this. I don't deserve you.' But how could he even whisper it when his tongue refuses to part from hers now, and her hands, loving every inch of his body where they stand together.

To question her morals was a fact that had been wholly unexistent until now. He couldn't help it thus blamed it on his nature. Thought the words are not said, she see's everything in his expression when he hesitates in the instant they stand slightly parted for air, where his full exposition is inescapable.

He looks down to himself and squeezes his eyes closed. How did she love him? Murderer, liar, traitor, unfaithful husband, hopeless father, coward. If not the shameful and solid facts of his past then why did she want him physically?

"Harry what's wrong."

She doesn't ask like a question. It's more a frustrated statement - she loathes this sudden cold between them where his skin doesn't press against her shirt. The desire to continue brings her lips on his again, which in fairness he doesn't deny.

"If you don't want to do this..." she mumbles to him between laboured breaths.

"Do I look like I don't want to. I was the one who took my bloody clothes off."

"Then explain," she catches his earlobe, runs her fingers through short damp hair, "What's stopping you. I know that look; what are you scared of?"

In their state, the observation is well made. He's angry with himself. For his timing and for his constant hesitation, then dreadfully abrupt tactic.

"Of you wanting more than me," he admits, "Or what I can give you."

"Harry I have everything I want in my hands right now."

"A careless, guilt-ridden fuck?"

"I've waited ten years for you. For this. Do you have any idea how beautiful you are."

"Ruth..." he tries, tears almost swell, "You don't have to pretend. Please... please don't pretend. Beautiful is not the word I'd use to describe myself."

He had seemed so self-assured. But not even the pressing of her lips against his lifts the anxiety in his face. She runs her pressured fingers over his scarred left shoulder and down his back.

"Harry any word you'd use would just demean everything you are, because that's what you see in your reflection and in your history. I know you think it physically and practically, but I'm telling you now, I'm in love with you. I've been in love with you for so long."

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><p><em><strong>More soon ;) <strong>_


	6. Chapter 6

_**Thank you again. :) You're so generous with your reviews. And quick too, unlike me with this update. Apologies for that. Anywho...**_

_**M rated ;)**_

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><p>What began as frightened and gentle crafts itself into powerful and decisive. Their actions take place faster than she ever knew was possible. Loosing self control is not <em>an<em> option, it is _thee_ option. For the first time in her life she thanks the fact that there's nowhere she can run to.

They turn with each other grasping, he slams her against the wall, and she takes his weight against her heaving chest with hands squeezing his cheeks. But as they part and snatch oxygen, she opens her eyes and see's something awful in him.

Though she doesn't understand why, it registers and nothing other than fear.

"Harry?"

His chest heaves faster than hers. Tiny drops of sweat mix with the paint on his arms and collar bone, every detail of him screams to have her here, now. Her stare and hands holding his face plead for an explanation.

He closes his eyes as their foreheads are planted together.

"Ruth if I start I won't... I can't stop myself. If this is what you truly believe is right then I'll do it. I'll love you. I love you more than anything."

How can he sound ashamed? She never gave him anything to be ashamed of. And he never gave anything to himself.

She loves how he makes a final check, even in this passionate and untamed chaos.

A shaky "please," is all her tongue manages, still tingling from the sensation of his around it.

Again they're lost in an instant pull of his lips to hers, followed by his hot flesh, her hands loving the scarred skin of his chest and back as he presses further against her. He is desperately thankfully they spend no time discussing the pain filled history so blatantly painted on his body. His hands slide in unconscious movement to the base of her t shirt to lift it off and join his on the floor. Finally, skin meets skin and the world explodes in a single, beautiful moment.

It's odd how in a sudden step they're collapsed onto her bed. How did he know which door to carry her through as their lips were joined? How is he so fierce but so graceful? This paradoxical mix of a guilty and adoring man sweeter than she'll ever let herself truly believe is impossible, beautiful – he undresses her in a way that can only mean he loves her. She's laid like this before, under men who wont properly look at her. That hardly mean anything they say or do, in comparison to Harry. He is the one who undermines all those men, who tells her he loves her repeatedly, who will wait until the strict elating moment to bring her to ecstasy. She holds him against her as he fumbles swiftly with his trousers before breathing into him that she loves him, always has. Her jeans follow.

The cry of his name leaping off her tongue sends him wild. She was always this beautiful, he thinks as he loves her stronger, and she arches underneath him releasing quick gasps of his name. Skin to skin; the greatest sensation in the world. This is all he wants, he is all she wants. She loves him, he presses onto her, she rakes her nails down his back, their lips connect, pulsate, part, connect, pulsate. They form love in her bed, they complete each other, after more years than they can ever believe was possible.

Things that could never be forgiven are forgiven in an instant.

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><p>"Christ. Harry..."<p>

He can't quite lift himself off her. Not yet. It's given though that she doesn't want him to; her hands, clutched slightly, hold his heaving back as he squashes her in her bed, now theirs. As if it was made for her shoulder his chin rests there as they gasp their breath back, sweaty and bright eyed. Eventually he rolls off to her left, exposing her bare torso to the air of the room where she lets her eyelids meet in a relief that can't truly be expressed through words. She lets her panting speak for her. Then she reaches over where he lays, one hand on his stomach, the other on her pillow and pulls herself on top of him to kiss him soundly.

"I love you," she whispers, and he whispers it back. Perfect words. The most difficult to say that now seems to come as if it was always natural.

Though she can't stop beaming, and repeating the phrase, he's quieter than she expected. Reason unknown only for as long as she doesn't ask, she probes him as she rests her head on his chest and toys with his skin, stroking her thumb down the side, feeling for and counting his ribs. Tracing circles, grinning mischievously at the goose bumps she creates. His hand forms similar motions over her shoulder blades and forearm.

"You're so quiet," she says eventually, speech slightly drowsy; she could slip into a sleep at the rhythm of his heart thudding to her ear.

He pulls the quilt a little high to meet his navel.

"I don't know what to say." He replies, "All I want to say is I love you. If I repeat it much more you'll think I've lost it."

She chuckles and strains her neck slightly in an attempt to catch his brown gaze, shadowed slightly by the gloom of her bedroom.

"Actually Ruth," he continues and she feels his muscles contract in a tense breath, "I just want you to know that I wasn't... I didn't intend this tonight. The sex, I mean. I didn't come round hoping to... y'know. Sorry. It probably looked that way. Taking my shirt off, it..." the sentence withers before it dies, his chest sinks a little under her head.

She'll admit she's moved by his sincerity and concern. But in fairness it hadn't crossed her mind. After his hesitation, his immediate _apparent_ regret after they kissed in her bathroom indicated he had only been sure after she'd said please. After she finally said 'I love you'. With the smile still settled on her face, she pulls herself upwards to meet his eyes directly, putting a flat palm on his chest.

"This will surprise you or appal you," she teases, "Or both. _You_ may not have intended it but I think I did."

His expression switches to... she's not sure. Then a smile begins to tug the right corner of his lips. She shrugs and continues, occasionally dips her focus to his chest under her hand,

"Probably didn't look like it. It was making that first step. I've never been good at that."

"And there I was scared as hell, thinking I'd been the most presumptuous fool in the world."

"As far as seduction techniques go, yours was one of the most entertaining, I can say that at least."

"Worked though."

She wriggles forward slightly and meets his lips. These lips that she's so used to now, that are so perfect, that fit with her smaller ones. Like his hand that curls around her shoulder and brings their bodies closer again. This is something she could get used to.

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><p><em><strong>Rushed. Can you tell? More soon. They still haven't finished painting ;) <strong>_


	7. Chapter 7

_**Thank you again! Threesummedays – I'm mightily impressed by your ability to counterbalance fic writing with 'real' work. Got any tips on how I could tackle that issue? Because my coursework is refusing to die and this fic just wont leave me alone... ;)**_

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><p>"So what happens now?" he asks eventually after she's left his lips and moved down slightly to dust his smooth chest with kisses. He repeats through a giggle, "Ruth?"<p>

"Well..." she starts through the taste of his skin and a broad smile, "You have... three choices..."

It's hard to construct a conversation when she's paying him such delicate attention, leaving the scars over his body unquestioned, her spare hand draped over his chest where he can meet her fingers with his own. His stomach announces a serious rumble before she reaches it, bringing a halt to her caresses. They can't help but chuckle.

"I'm hoping food is one of them," he teases.

"Yes. Actually," she stiffens and sits up. For the first time he's graced with a proper view of her perfectly curved back, though she knows nothing of his smile yet as her moon wide eyes stare out to the door. "I completely forgot about dinner. Crap!"

With an obvious disregard, or loss of memory, for his state, she leaps off the bed and takes the sheet with her. Slipping her jeans on bare legs and yanking the jumper draped over her chair, she then abandons the sheet - making him wonder why she took it in the first place - and shoots downstairs. She won't say it, but she's fairly surprised she's able to walk so confidently while he laughs to himself in her unmade bed.

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><p>Miraculously, tonight really is her night (as soon as she lets herself admit the sitting room can and will wait). Their dinner, not burnt, is pulled from the oven cooked dam near perfect. But as she stands over it making glances at the set table she suddenly realises she doesn't quite know what to do. Decoration, disaster, sex, then a full course meal? Not your average evening. Not even in the right order. But they were never average in the first place, which make her smile. The smile in itself is enough to convince her it's not a bad thing.<p>

The pre-prepared sauce covers a healthy amount of the beef across their plates, though the peppers needs a little more time. She's busying herself with spices when he presents himself at the kitchen doorway, slipping in unannounced, and steals two mouthfuls off what is in fact her plate.

"Harry!"

She would continue further but a profound puzzlement takes hold of her features before the sentence is fully formed. She follows her gaze to his chest, back to his face, then chest again.

"My t-shirt's soaking, remember," he prompts. "I don't usually make a habit of walking around topless but I really haven't got a spare shirt."

Her eyes brighten that little bit. She smirks,

"If you're indirectly asking if _I_ have one, I'm disappointed."

"Yes I'm asking, and if you expect me to share this meal with you without one, then you have to take yours off as well."

"But – "

"Them's the rules Ruth," he quips taking another mouthful off the nearest plate.

"Alright." She puts down the small glass jar of fresh spice and walks past him to head for upstairs again. "Though I'm somewhat tempted to leave you without any clothes at all if you keep eating my dinner."

He jerks round to her mid-chew as she strolls off.

"Bugger."

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><p>Though neither of them can honestly say they saw it coming, or were young enough for it, round two follows dinner. Just as before, it's perfect, and just as before she can't really find words to accompany the chorus of 'I love you' in-between healthy cries of his name. This time they allow sleep to rein over them afterwards, well needed it would seem. They don't wake until half past ten the following morning, when he has seventeen missed calls from Ros and the Home Secretary, which she tells him to ignore.<p>

"For once in your life, put yourself first," she mumbles to his chest in a voice still cushioned in a half-sleep. "Ros knew you were here last night. I'd have hoped she'd have worked it out by now."

It's a point well made.

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><p><em><strong>This is somewhat shorter than I'd anticipated... sorry! There'll be more, relatively soon. Ish. <strong>_


	8. Chapter 8

_**I always read every single review. They mean a lot, as I'm sure most of you will appreciate anyway, so thank you again! Just as a reminder re context – this is set mid Series 8.**_

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><p>Ros really <em>has<em> worked it out, clearly. As she steps through the pods it takes Ruth all of ten seconds to click that maybe this wont be the easiest ride of her life. They agreed Harry would arrive about half an hour later dependant on whether the Home Secretary was willing to forgive and forget, or grill him to the bone. So without her boss at hand to exercise his authority, Ruth can do little but shakily stand her ground when Ros approaches wearing _that_ face. Lucas – watching hilariously indiscreetly – keeps his distance but makes an obvious effort to stay in ear shot. Ros confided to him earlier and judging by his smirk, Ruth concludes he can't quite believe the idea. Harry and Ruth? Don't be so ridiculous.

"Afternoon Ros."

The Section Chief manages a smile that could possibly be an honest one. Spiteful, tactical or just surprised? For not the first time in her life, Ruth can't tell but she offers a smile in return anyway. She's been smiling a lot recently and even at these suspicious eyes, it feels wonderful.

"We were worried about you," Ros explains, though not entirely without a trace of irritation catching her sentence. "Can I have a word?"

"Sure." _Why not. I've had this coming for years_. "Meeting room?"

"I think Harry's office is better suited, if he's due back any time soon. I'd like to talk to him as well."

They settle without words and Ruth is blatantly shifting in a greater discomfort than Ros cares to acknowledge. If it's embarrassment – which she can't believe it is – that's holding her lips closed, she frustrated that she can't just stand up for herself, just this once, and announce her love for her boss. Ros couldn't condemn her for that. Even if she could, she wouldn't. And though her eyes are searching in the soft light of his office, there is a conflicting smile that tugs at the corner of her slim lips.

"Ruth, is this... are you..."

"Nothing's official."

"It doesn't have to be; it's been staring us in the face for years." She places the heavy files beside them on the sofa. "I just need know that if you and Harry really are finally together – so to speak – that you're aware of the dangers, the _new_ dangers, arising from this." She dips abruptly like her words are merely a mumbled understatement of some deeper concern. "I don't know whether you've discussed it with him or not. You're both at a much greater risk now."

"No we haven't discussed it and yes I'm aware."

"Will you tell anyone?"

She gives an awkward twist of the lips, looks out to the Grid and remembers the absence of Jo. When she speaks, she's taken by Lucas' smile. This world of espionage isn't all the cruelty it sometimes seems.

"We agreed the Home Secretary should know," she explains, "Harry's telling him now."

Ros nods gently.

"You can trust Lucas to keep it to himself. And Tariq probably thinks you're a married couple anyway."

"Really? Is that..." for whatever reason, she asks in hushed whisper, "_Do we really look like that_?"

At the question, Harry materialises through the pods, collected as ever, and Ros gives a vast smile that doesn't really suit her face as their boss begins to stride towards them, before whispering back,

"Absolutely."

_Whoosh_.

"Ros." He steps in looking as if guilt could never get within a mile of him, "Afternoon."

She hands him the two folders thick with paperwork he probably could go without reading. A look of confusion strikes his face when he catches Ruth's stare of unease, perched on the edge of his sofa. She's still holding her handbag and sports her coat, done up. Ros waits for her boss to accept the files with obvious distaste and close the door.

"I suppose some form of congratulations are in order," she begins. Blank faced, he moves to his desk and collapses into the chair awaiting her elaboration. "Only took you seven years."

Ruth eyes dart for the floor when his own lift to her expression along with a sharply arched eyebrow. His lover knows him well enough to gather he isn't angry though. Not in the slightest. If anything, he's quietly proud.

"Ros I really don't think this is the time or the place."

She smiles,

"Part of me suspects nowhere ever will be Harry. I was just making sure."

"Why?"

Like some sly intelligent queen, she slowly slips her fingers into her jean pockets and presents her best poker face as he waits, leaned forward, for the answer.

"Because I had twenty quid on it."

He gives way to a heartily chuckle. Ruth does exactly the opposite as the Section Head and Section Chief set the law down between them that this is a positive topic that obviously shouldn't be avoided.

"We're... definitely talking of the same thing here, aren't we Ros? I'm only going by Ruth's face that you've discovered... what you've discovered."

"Neither of you have actually said it aloud, no, but I can't be surprised. Malcolm and I were pretty sure hell would freeze ever before you admitted it to each _other_ let alone anyone else." He cocks his head. "But what needs to be kept quiet will be kept quiet," she says, "If that's what you want."

"That's what _I_ want," Ruth states without hesitation. The nod Ros gives is respectful enough not to pursue the matter any further. Harry leans back again taking folder one of two to hand, silently conscious of Ruth's discomfort.

"If that's everything Ros."

She nods, and exits, making sure to close the door.

There is a thick physical stillness in her absence that develops between them before either of them consider what to say. No sooner has he read the title of the first document, Harry closes the folder and slides it back onto his desk. Given the warm light that's more of a glow, his gold tie and loose posture he looks the direct opposite of stressed as he sits there before her. He looks self-assured and content for quite possibly the first time in many years.

There can't be any secrets between them anymore.

"Do you think this is the right thing to do?" she asks eventually. The disquiet in her question is obvious.

He sighs.

"I trust Ros."

"That's not what I meant. I trust Ros too, but..."

"Ruth, people will find out eventually. One way or another, they _will_ hear, and there's not much we can do to prevent it. We shouldn't deny it to anyone. There's no problem with colleagues knowing, it's those that will do us harm we need to ensure never learn of it."

Her fingers form a revolving twisting motion against her handbag strap as she focuses on her feet. In an awful and sudden moment, he wonders if what he sees in her face is regret. But when she raises her gaze to his, he is corrected. She stands, pads towards him, leans across the desk, and kisses him solidly. Stunned, he doesn't kiss back immediately and she parts their lips.

"I love you," is all she says before disappearing from his igloo to the expanse of the Grid, where Lucas is waiting by her desk, a smile bigger than she's ever known shaping his face.

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><p><em><strong>More soon. <strong>_


	9. Chapter 9

_**Over 100 reviews! **__**And**__** my Series 10 box set has been dispatched. Good Lord this is better than Christmas day!**_

_**This chapter's based the following evening/night of chapter 8.**_

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><p>Paint is everywhere it shouldn't be, again.<p>

"Harry!"

She's wholly adorable when she squeals like that, and wriggling unsuccessfully under his grip - one hand clasping her wrist, the other supporting the dip of her back. He kisses her again. Every contact of lips to lips is stronger than the previous, but she doesn't allow him long enough to taste her properly. In the end she is left little choice and although they are both still holding paintbrushes, she topples over onto the covered sofa and he gently follows to land in a neat crash on top of her.

"Harry..." she chuckles under his touch as his lips command their positions, "How... am I supposed... to get... this bloody... decorating... finished... before... tomorrow afternoon?" Frustrated muscles go to push herself upwards, but in a declarative moment he collapses his arms, utilising his greater mass to keep her down. She roars with laughter, "_Harry!_"

"Yes Ruth?"

Mischief so vivid has never taken hold of his features like that before. It silences her completely. Taking that as ticket to continue, he slips his hand between the back of her t shirt and her skin before she can argue her case.

"_Christ almighty!_" she arches and thwacks his shoulder. "Your hands are bloody freezing!"

The response of a laugh and continuation of said hand on it's travels prompts a further protest. With little else available, she mimics him using both hands to slip under the black cotton of another t shirt that doesn't quite fit. Before he realises what she's doing, she's swiftly taken the hem in a tight grip and lifted it up and over his head.

Despite all the things he could have said, he chooses simply to chuckle in words place. Then follows with exactly the same movement, agile and practiced, it would seem anyway.

"Well," she giggles to fast caresses, "Am I to accept that this is as far as we're going to get with the painting tonight?"

Slowly, his eyes are swirling from hazel to something darker, lustful. He lowers himself slightly and traces kisses from her lips down her neck, across her collarbone. Her struggles subdue.

"H... Harry..."

She's adopted _that_ voice. A sound of attempted control that he knows he's capable of overruling in the very near future. She takes a tense grip of his back, he slides back up to her ear, soft lips tickling behind it.

"Upstairs," he purrs.

She wont protest. She can't.

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><p>If this is the conclusion to a life in the secret service – she thinks – then perhaps the solitude, loss and lying were worth enduring after all. It's two hours since she lost herself to him, and he's finally found what's she's certain is a place he can sleep without waking in-between. The slowed, deep breathing is the only sign she can take as an indicator of his serenity. He makes no other sound or movement as she traces infinity figures over the occasionally scarred skin that meets his chest to stomach. Though it pains her, she can't ignore the marks that shine brighter than they really are under the November moonlight. Some are long and thin, like drawn out knife wounds, which trail from his left breast and stop short at the base of his stomach. Others are blatant and lurid gunshot wounds, though she only knows the origin of the one than sits at his left shoulder. There are others she can't establish but speculates over their imprinting. If not bullets, then burns.<p>

No amount of tracing the pink wounds to understand them will rid her imagination of his suffering. For the first time, she closes her eyes to stare at darkness in place of his skin. That's when he wakes by chance, naturally, and finds her one arm squeezing him to her body, her head nestled perfectly on the pillow beside his.

Instinctively her eyes are open at the sound of his breathing pattern having changed. She offers him a smile but he knows she's been awake longer than he'd hoped for.

"Ruth?"

He rolls over slightly, bringing his left shoulder forward and exposing his left rib cage where a further two scars – though small – are introduced.

"Did I wake you?" she whispers. He shakes his head, kisses her.

"No. Are you alright?"

She gives the answer in movement; her hand lifts to his shoulder, where she rests two fingers on what Tom Quinn left. Clouded eyes tell what words can't and he doesn't have to look to see what she's gazing at. He snakes one arm around her, pressing their warm chests together before she accepts his lips against hers in a deep kiss.

"I didn't ask," she says as they part. "Though you made no effort to hide them."

"Why would I? One day I hoped for the opportunity to tell you the history behind each one. If you ever wanted to know. However judging by your face I'm guessing you'd actually rather not."

"It's not that," her hand rests on his cheek, "I think I probably would like to know. It's just the idea of someone doing that to you." Her frown signifies an agitated concern, one which actually warms him to think is meant for him. Briefly, her eyes flick downwards, "The deepest one, from the left of your chest that finishes on your stomach... how, I mean... Harry it looks excruciating."

The speed in which his eyes glaze with grief prompt a squeeze of his body to hers and she shifts slightly under the sheets, despite his completely static position.

"Lebanon," he sighs. "I shouldn't have been there – none of us should have. It was a black op, about twenty years ago and to be entirely honest it was my own stupid fault for disobeying orders. Three of us were arrested, well, we thought it was an arrest. Mild interrogation followed. What we thought was some form of army official forced his way in and redirected the ordeal, a group kidnapped us as we were preparing to be transported to a different station. That wound was actually sustained in the struggle between transportation. I lost a lot of blood, but I was the only one who survived in the end."

She swallows. He wasn't expecting much else. With a heavy sigh he plants a kiss on her forehead, and in doing so, the alien sensation of tears on his chest make his heart lurch.

"Oh Ruth..."

Brisk and frustrated movements smash them away as she shakes her head.

"I've got no good reason to cry," she states, "I have you here, you're alive – we have everything we want." Arms snake around his neck, "I love you."

He kisses her again, mumbling to her lips, "I love you."

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><p><em><strong>I had an idea of where to go with this but this chapter sort of went off on a tangent. I'll be back on track soon :P<strong>_


	10. Chapter 10

_**Thank you everyone for your wonderful response. Hope you're all enjoying your Series 10 DVD's. If that's possible, which it probably isn't, given 10.6. Depends if you work for Kudos or not. If you do, would you kindly go away please.**_

_**For everyone else, enjoy! ;)**_

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><p>When he wakes he finds he has the bed to himself. Dull clatters rumble through the floorboards from downstairs. Metallic clattering, and then rhythmic stepping. He slips gradually out of her bed. As the cool air smacks his bare skin, he is sharply reminded of the night's topic of conversation and for whatever reason, he now feels that he owes her an apology. Catching his reflection in her wall mirror pretty much confirms it. To a new eye, free of clothing, he looks like some form of weapons target.<p>

In his boxers he ventures downstairs to find her up the ladder that previously tried to kill him, focused intently on the final wall they didn't finish. A fact for which he has no particular regrets about being responsible for. When she hears his bare feet padding across the room she turns and beams, a million miles from the tears that consumed her face last night. He finds his black t-shirt in a heap where she left it, keen to pull it on and cover what evoked her tears.

"Morning," she chirps and climbs down, fully prepared to give answers to the questions already forming across his face.

He takes a moment to thank whatever higher being there be that has graced him with this situation. At one point, a few months ago, to stand in front of her in his boxers and an ill fitting t-shirt would have been the recipe for his worst ever nightmare. Now, he's amused at the blush he creates tinting her cheeks.

"Hi. What are you doing?"

She returns the paintbrush to the new tin and leans on the arm of the sofa. _That_ sofa. "What does it look like?"

He scans the flat walls smothered in a faultless layer of fresh green for a clock. In finding none, he takes a shot,

"It's a bit early isn't it? To be decorating."

"No Harry," she smirks. "It's just gone eleven. I didn't want to wake you."

"_Eleven_?"

In a flash, he shoots her the familiar _'shit!_' look, eyes wide with disbelief which in turn sends her into a healthy chuckle.

"Bloody h... are you sure?"

"Harry of all people I think you deserve a lie in once in a while," she offers.

"But I was supposed to be helping you get this room decorated before your mother arrived, not lazing around in bed." He runs a hand through his short dark hair before a deep exhalation. She approaches him, "Ruth I'm really sorry."

A kiss is her response. Funny, he thinks, how a kiss will clear up every strand of unease between them, even if only one of them is experiencing it.

"Hop in the shower," she instructs."I'm hoping you took my advice to bring clean clothes. As wonderful as you are, I can't see my mother appreciating being greeted by a man sporting boxer shorts and a t-shirt."

He can't accept her humour.

"You want me to meet your mother?" This morning greeting is not quite developing in his favour.

When she stands this close she can literally see the cognition of his mind reflected in his beautiful brown and still sleepy eyes.

"She phoned earlier, I said you were here. Actually..." her sentence trails, his concern is heightened. "It's all a bit complicated; I suggest I explain over something to eat."

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><p>Without hesitation, the previous day, he had indeed taken her advice to bring a next day's set of clothing. In flirtatious sweet nothings two nights previous she had admitted how handsome he looked in blue. Now, unsure of whether she'll actually notice or not, as he slips the shirt on in her bathroom, he does so with a smile.<p>

Downstairs she meets him at the table and presents a full English. Only one full English though, having insisted that she's already eaten but he could do with the energy. Quite why, he's not sure.

As she settles opposite with cup of tea in hand it's obvious he is prepared to deny he's really that hungry. But in perfect contradiction to his expression – and exactly as before – his stomach roars above his words. She laughs, sliding his mug across the table before he begins to eat.

They operate in unusual ways, that much can't be ignored; their first evening was in the wrong order, she woke him up in the middle of the night sobbing, and now he's having breakfast two hours after her while she sits with him splashed in paint.

She's never experienced so many odd occurrences fitting together to bring about something so beautiful before. When he smiles, she wonders if he's thinking the same thing.

"I haven't told her I'm with anyone, properly, so to speak." She says with a sip.

"Why?"

She can't give a definitive answer.

"Because technically three days ago, I wasn't."

The smirk he gives is proud, accomplished. Rightly so.

"I just sort of mumbled that I had a friend round, and she was likely to meet you. So you have two choices," she offers and leans back while he listens and chews intently. "Explain as soon as possible; introduce yourself as my partner. Or, pretend you're a colleague who's come over on a work matter."

"On a Saturday afternoon? Ruth I have no desire to dent your mothers intelligence but I'd be worried if she was prepared to believe that."

"It _would_ be more practical if you came clean straight away. The only reason I offered an alternative is because if you _do_ admit you're with me, you ought to be prepared for a full evaluation slash interrogation."

He swallows once, his frown illustrating the clear incredulity swelling in his mind.

"Evaluation? Does she think you're still sixteen?"

"Sometimes I find myself wondering that y'know."

"Evaluation..." he repeats. "Okay. What delights can I expect?"

Biting her lip to suppress a smile, she teases with mischievous eyes of things he has literally no idea of but is beginning to fear more and more for every pause she makes.

"Oh I don't know. How long you've known me for, how _well_ you know me," she takes a drawn sip of her tea, aware that his eating has slowed considerably. "Questions over your job, so good luck with that one; she doesn't know I work for MI5. Your intentions probably. She'll ask you that when I'm out of the room."

"I assume mentioning the fact that I proposed..."

"Is out of the question, yes." Her eyes fall, suddenly sad. "But for my sake. Not yours."

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><p><em><strong>Why do I take so flippin' long to get to a point? 'Harry meets Ruth's mum' was supposed to have happened 2 chapters ago! :P If you've bothered to stick with it, and I wont blame you if you haven't, a review would be wonderful. ;) More soon.<strong>_


	11. Chapter 11

_**Thank you again! The expectations are quite high for this chapter; I'm starting to understand how Brackley and Vincent felt regarding 10.6. **__**Hopefully I'll do a better job than they did.**_

_**Frankly I can't see that being difficult. ;) **_

_**Enjoy!**_

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><p>"It's Elizabeth isn't it?" he asks, padding into the still incomplete sitting room where his lover, beautifully decorated in paint herself, stands with hands on hips glaring at the wall.<p>

"Hm?" she turns, "Yes it is. Watch you don't get paint on your socks."

"Would you like to offer any erm, advice, I suppose, about what I should say specifically? Or what I shouldn't." He balances on the wooden door panel, socks clean.

She's quiet for a moment and he's grateful that's she's giving the question thought, even if the answer is 'no, fend for yourself'. The sunlight through the curtain-less window kisses her skin as gently as he does, bathing her features, and he wonders if she'll look anything like her mother.

"She thinks I still work for GCHQ," Ruth says as if it's a basic statement. The surprise that takes hold of his face reminds her it isn't. "I was allowed to disclose that much."

He nods.

"That's fine, but you said you'd suggested you had 'a friend round', and I rather think I don't quite fit the description of a Saturday afternoon friend who's popped round for a cup of tea. If you're going to tell her about us, I'll have to pretend..."

"To pretend you work at GCHQ, maybe, not necessarily."

Something uncomfortable twists in his stomach. He shuffles slightly, crosses his arms and holds them compactly to his chest. It was something she never found difficultly in reading, but now they're in her home it's amplified – regardless of the fact that he's a grown man, he's ill at ease. So she pads towards him, announces a smile with a cordial hand on his arm. It relieves something, given on his face.

"It'll be fine," she says, "She wont ask of work, she never has, even when I started there however many years ago. The most pressing questions will be saved for me, I can assure you." She kisses him, sliding her her hand to his nape. She loves how she can now do so whenever and wherever in the confidence that he'll always react and pull her closer. "I'm off to get changed."

* * *

><p>An hour of unnaturally annalistic thinking, and over thinking later, while he's returning the sofa to it's original place, the doorbell sings down the hall and summons Ruth to the door.<p>

He hears the squeak of Ruth opening it and the warm exchanges that follows. Unconsciously, he smiles.

"Hello darling," _kiss kiss_.

"Mum, hello, hello – here let me take that. Harry!"

Elizabeth steps in after an embrace, placing her small suitcase type bag with handbag in the corner or Ruth's undersized hallway. They're exactly the same height and have been for the last twenty years, but in the same manner as any boss at work, Ruth always looks up and is – to some extent – permanently under her mothers direction. Not that she'd complain; for the most part, her mother worked hard to provide everything their family needed after her father's death when she was eleven years old. These visits are something she anticipates with enthusiasm, even if Harry couldn't quite see that.

"It's blimin' freezing out there," the older woman puffs, slipping off her coat in unconscious contradiction. "Hope you've put the kettle on."

"I'll ask Harry to do it in a sec, and – "

"Ah yes of course!" she claps as they make their way from the now cold hall, "The mysterious Harry, whom also seems to be invisible."

A heavy foot, then,

"Hello."

He's surprised. Out of politeness or genuinely, he's not sure, but her reaction is definitely better than 'good God.' It's not overjoyed. But it's not shocked, which is enough.

"Harry!"

She smiles, for one. Then she leans in for a kiss on the cheek, his hand find her back as they embrace in the doorway whilst Ruth finds a path away to the kitchen, grinning.

"It's lovely to meet you," Elizabeth offers, a hand resting on his arm. He's conscious that first impressions are frequently inaccurate, but her smile and knowing blue eyes replicate Ruth's too well to be distrusted.

"And you," he beams, if a little exaggerated.

She takes in a deep breath almost as if she hasn't heard him or received the compliment. He suddenly realises what he's dreaded; her eyes run from his hair, down his face, chest, stomach, legs, feet, then return their journey. Why do people do that? Eighteen years in MI5 hasn't revealed that to him and he's pretty certain a blue shirt and black jeans wont reveal his personality traits. She stays silent. With self-confidence slowly trickling he still manages to uphold the smile, understanding that she cannot really mean him any true resentment despite the fact that those eyes have changed, slightly.

It's odd trying to read a woman he's more than aware will be in his best interests to befriend. She Ruth's height – exactly, he believes – with slightly lighter but shorter hair in similar style to Juliet's, which isn't doing him many favours. Her features give absolutely nothing away. Conversely, her postures radiates confidence that could actually never be arrogance, and intelligence, most definitely.

"You're one of Ruth's colleagues?" she asks. She knows it's more than that. He knows she knows.

It's domestic espionage.

"At GCHQ, yes." He replies and considers his next words carefully and quickly. "But we're together, too. We met at work."

"I see."

Brief silence, she watches him bite his tongue and his shoulders tense. He snatches a breath before she nods.

Accepting. Not openly approving.

She continues, observing the sitting room behind him briefly.

"And you're living together now?"

"N – yeah, erm, sort of." _Christ. Good job you haven't disclosed the fact that you are actually an MI5 spy. Not the smoothest answer Harry. _

Ruth appears and cuts in to save him, giving a reason for his startled gaze to look elsewhere.

"Mum would you like tea or coffee?"

Elizabeth holds her stare to his face a fraction longer than necessary. He looks back, their eyes lock again. To read everything in the eyes and nothing in the conversation is something he shared with similar eyes once, only now it's terrorizing and overly judgmental. Then, abruptly, she smiles and turns to the kitchen to speak of the price of wine and petrol with her daughter, as if he is a toy in her palm that she can do with as she pleases. He probably is. All the strenuous intelligence service and army training in the United Kingdom serve for nothing under this woman's stare. He's thanks God Ruth had somehow separated herself from her mothers personality however many years ago.

There is of course the other option, which occurs to him before he pads over to join them; the chance that he's reading far too much into this. It's Ruth's _mother_. She knows little if anything of Ruth's private life, mainly because there has always been so little to know, so this in truth is as much of a fresh experience to her as it is to him.

As he reaches the dining room and settles awkwardly by the table, he observes them in the kitchen together, content and most definitely related. Their mannerisms flow in unison. They're already in a healthy debate over petrol prices, presenting concise and valid points.

Ruth stands by the kettle, aware that he's watching. Elizabeth turns the corner, out of view to place the milk in the fridge and as she does so, she says,

"He seems lovely my dear, and it's so nice to see you with someone." A proud smile shapes Ruth lips, mirrored in Harry's as she looks out to him. But then, still unaware of his presence, her mother adds quietly, "Though when he's out, I'd like to have a little chat."

Their faces fall together.

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><p><em><strong>More soon. <strong>_


	12. Chapter 12

_**For the first time ever I have a proper excuse for the delay in updating. Thank you – everyone – for being so patient, hope you enjoy and muchos gratitude for all the fantastic the support.**_

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><p>It could be a lot worse.<p>

For the best part of an hour they chat of commonplace domestic things ('they', meaning chiefly Ruth and her mother); indirectly placing Harry in an awkward position. Elizabeth can't fully understand why he's polite but quiet as he doesn't act notably shy, and is clear on keeping good eye contact. It only occurs to Ruth about half an hour in; it's probably been years since he's had any sort of household chat. He doesn't see his children, he's never had anyone at home in all the time she's known him. It's shouldn't be a surprise that she dominates the scene yet soon, she finds herself making an effort to include him where her mother leaves gaps (indirectly or otherwise is not clear).

After having discussed the sitting room and its new colour at length, they settle in the dining room with fresh tea. At the suggestion of biscuits by Ruth, Elizabeth decides the moment has become appropriate for a conversation shift.

"So," she announces cheerily, "Harry. Tell me, how did you meet my daughter? I mean I love to know these little things. Do you work in the same department?"

It's not overly testing but he gains the impression it soon will be.

Ruth blanks his 'what do I do now' look by slipping away to the kitchen.

"Not quite. I work in the internal audit department, and met Ruth during a standard assessment we conduct every year." His voice is about as credible as it can be without sounding as if he's reading a transcript. And the nod she gives enables him to relax a little more. "They last weeks, and we were faced with some problems anyway so I ended up spending most of my time in the linguistics department, with Ruth. We had coffee and...well it developed from there really."

"It's strange you know, how she failed to mention any of it to me."

"Well, I er... we're often so busy with work all the time and we didn't want to make any fuss, I'm sure you understand."

She doesn't and it's irritating. But she sips her tea as if the world is free of trouble, smiles and leans back, clearly ten times more content in his company that he is in hers.

"Of course." She nods, "Are you in the process of moving in then, if you're together? Do you have any plans?"

So she really has taken Ruth's absence as the opportunity for mild interrogation.

He puffs out his chest a little in silent willing for Ruth to find the dam biscuits and return as soon as possible.

"We're talking about it," he states plainly. Practically emotionless. "Haven't really decided anything." The gaps between his words scream deceit. The fact that she doesn't reply makes his shoulders droop a little and he's monumentally grateful for Ruth calling through,

"Mum I don't have any wine for tonight!"

_Bingo_.

He stands,

"I'll pop out and get some," he announces without a moments hesitation, placing his own mug down and making for the door. "We need a paper too." He doesn't wait for a reply.

She knows his wallet is on the hallway cabinet, as he made of point of paying to replace yesterdays spilled paint. She follows to remind him as much to grab two seconds privacy from the increasingly intrusive eyes of her mother. Like sunlight – silent and gentle – she appears at his side as he makes a messy effort to tug on his coat as quickly as possible in the hallway.

"You'll be needing this." She thrusts his wallet to his chest at the same moment he takes a wide step forward, close and hot, not remotely surprised by her abrupt appearance.

"She doesn't believe a word of it," he hushes in what is quite possibly panic. "You don't need to be a spy to work that out. She doesn't trust me and she doesn't like me."

She rolls her eyes,

"Harry has it ever occurred to you that I don't really care whether she likes you or not? It's not as if she could ever take you away from me."

He retreats a little, righted.

She gives a sad sigh but smiles anyway and leans in, taking the bottom buttons of his coat and pulling them around his body until she reaches the collar, puffs it up and completes her dressing with a deep kiss on pouted lips.

"I've waited ages to do that," she comments with a small blush, hand loosely on his chest.

"Kiss me?"

"Kiss you in my hallway."

He can't help one eyebrow arching, intrigued. So he kisses her back.

"Why?"

"I'm not entirely sure," she admits. "It just makes it feel more like home."

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><p><em><strong>This chapter is short because half of it was already written and I just wanted to update with *something* to let you know I'm still alive (just!). I know in your reviews you were expecting much more, so I suppose I've failed in my fanfic duty there but I'll post some more when I have a spare moment, promise. <strong>_


	13. Chapter 13

**Your patience is saintly. Thank you again! Hope you're all enjoying the FESTIVE SEASON. :) **

**I just realised a stupid mistake – I've been claiming this is based mid Series 8, actually just for the sake of involving Ros. But in a previous chapter I mentioned Harry's proposal (which I also mention in this chapter). Don't know if anyone's noticed :P Dramatic license will therefore allow me to continue as if Ros is still alive (as in Series 8) but Harry's proposal has already happened (Series 9).**

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><p>As she hands the biscuit tin over, Ruth catches the spark of exaggerated bother in her mother's blue eyes. Prepared for the explanation that'll no doubt show a hefty disregard for her daughter's innermost feelings, Ruth settles as comfortably as possible in the seat opposite. Elizabeth smiles. A good start.<p>

Until she opens her mouth.

"Well Ruth, I'll be honest, as I always am." She sucks her teeth. "He's... not what I expected."

Forty years and she still has no idea if that's a good thing or a bad thing. Elizabeth's expression, _concerned_ in one word, suggests the latter. No amount of sipping tea or averting eyes or fiddling with strands of cotton will suffice this time. There is no stare harsher than her own mothers – it is completely and utterly unavoidable.

"What do you mean?"

The older woman shuffles in her seat, still leaned forward slightly in a similar posture to her daughter.

"He seems like a perfectly lovely chap – "

"He is, mum." _He's so much more than that._

"Yes, and I like him." She presents her free hand in an 'I surrender' fashion as the other pinches a digestive. "I'm not saying you ought to leave him. I'd never say that."

"Doesn't mean you don't think it though." For the first time she manages to look away and under total lack of control, sadness envelopes her voice. "What _were_ you expecting then?"

Elizabeth shrugs, takes a drawn out sip.

"Someone taller." The confidence is uncanny."A bit fitter maybe."

"_Fitter_?" Ruth practically inhales her drink.

"Well y'know. He's quite tubby, don't you think?"

"Forgive me for not understanding why that matters in any way whatsoever."

She gives a knowing wink. Ruth hates it, all of this, every flicker of cruel certainty her mother radiates.

"The shape of a man can tell a lot of him my dear."

"Yes but fortunately you know little of him, or his history; the fact that he has a permanently damaged knee, for example. You know absolutely nothing about him. I don't see how you can comment like that, or why you even have."

"Does he drink?"

"Does – what?"

"I'll take that as a yes."

She rolls her eyes,

"Of course he drinks. So do I. So do you. If you mean _does he drink excessively_, then absolutely not."

"I didn't mean to offend you Ruth..."

"Well you've come pretty bloody close."

If there's one thing she hates besides the darkness of her job, it's unwarranted arguments with her mother. They don't arise often but once in ten years is enough. She stands and storms over to the kitchen.

"You know I wont tell him what you've said," she growls at the sink louder than her heart wants to put effort towards, throwing the tea away. "I think he was fond of you, he respects you. He was trying to impress you mum and frankly I can't see what's wrong."

"I didn't say anything was wrong!"

"You don't have to though do you. The fact that you haven't complimented specifics – at all – is evidence enough for me."

"You're being irrational Ruth. And ridiculously defensive."

Ruth catches her tongue, just. Then she slowly returns to Elizabeth's company, but doesn't sit down.

"Just tell me in one word." Her voice is almost cracked. "Do you like him, or not."

No answer follows, prompting Ruth to slowly begin to crush the frustration as the answer is no. _Move on, it's not worth the war of words. You won't win but you don't need to_. It's more than obvious neither will get one over the other if they sat and argued for years. And for Ruth the whole conversation lacks purpose anyway. Why criticise something you're not going to influence, ultimately? Elizabeth allows the silence to settle, loud as it is, and rain begins to delicately patter against the window.

"If you don't want to talk about Harry," she finally says, "can I ask you something else?"

Eyes narrow.

"Alright."

"Are you lying?"

The irony comes close to sending her into a roar of laughter. _If only you knew._

In all seriousness though, Ruth finds herself seated before words confirm anything. Such words that don't come easily it seems, under emotional and abrupt pressure, from a woman who wouldn't ask the question unless she knew the answer.

"Lying about what?"

"Forgive me if I'm mistaken but I don't believe I am. If anyone was going to see it, it would be your mother." A faint attempt at a reassuring smile clips the corner of her mouth. "You've barely been with Harry a week, have you."

"You've just said we weren't going to talk about Harry."

She gives a casual shrug, "I'm your mother, I lie. And this is important."

A delicate and practiced frown takes form on Ruth's forehead.

"When you say _been with_..."

"Lived with, here. Darling it's written on your face for the world to see. And it's not a criticism, before you start."

"We haven't been living together for any length of time, no, but I've known him... a long time."

"A slow burn?"

"Something like that, I suppose."

"You're not fully confident around him."

Her frown, slowly becoming a glare, burns into the space just aside from her mothers gaze.

"I don't agree with you."

"I know. But it's not opinion," she sighs. "It's observation. I only ask to put myself at peace Ruth. I don't want you getting into a relationship you'll later regret, for whatever reason. You understand from my point of view why I'm questioning this, don't you?"

"Because you care." She growls the routine answer.

Elizabeth smiles, honestly this time, with no underlying devious meaning.

"Because I care."

* * *

><p>As Harry jogs back in a hopeless attempt to avoid the now heavy rain, he can't help but recall meeting Jane's parents for the first time. Needless to say everything had run considerably more smoothly than meeting Elizabeth had thus far. Approaching Ruth's street, the thought strikes him with considerable gravity; be yourself. Elizabeth hasn't taken to the nervous, quiet and technically lying Harry. It worries him what she could need to speak to Ruth about in his absence. It worries him more so that so much can be said of someone she's just met and only spoken to for an hour. There is no doubt in his mind that Ruth will defend him, he knows that for certain, even it means presenting the battle to her own mother. He just hopes the china in the house is all intact upon his return.<p>

Entering and calling through when he arrives, he is met instantly by Ruth and in a single moment his suspicions are as good as confirmed.

"Survive in the interrogation did you?" he teases but doesn't bring the smile to her face in turn. As she takes the carrier bag from his frozen wet hand she swallows, and lifts her blues eyes that are so clearly drained. He doubts then if he has any hope at all of receiving Elizabeth's approval, and perhaps this is beyond a comical 'Meet the Parents' situation.

"She knows we haven't been together more than three days," she tells him, quietly.

"How?"

She gives a heavy shrug.

"I honestly don't know. She just... guessed."

"_Guessed_?" his shoulders sink. "Great. I suppose I'll have a lot to answer for now then."

"Shall I tell her everything?"

"Everything including the fact that you work for MI5? I wouldn't advise it." He begins to tackle the sodden material that once resembled a coat, awkwardly tugging it off his shoulders.

"Harry I can't keep lying to her. She has know. If we're going to do this seriously – you and I – she has know. You _were_ right, about her not trusting you. I think if I tell her you proposed it might restore some faith..."

He stops and gives an authorative shake of the head.

"That'll open up a new can of worms. You said no, remember. Yet you said I was the love of your life last night. Why would anyone deny marriage to the love of their life?" It's incredible how he says the sentence carrying no hostility whatsoever. It pains him to say it as it does her to hear it, and she can't help in feeling the cold smack of guilt hit hard despite the fact that he understands completely. His hand reaches for her arm. "It wont make any sense to her," he says.

It's only then he recognises the biting of her lips as a method to stifle tears.

"I just feel as if I've let her down somehow," her words fall unsteadily before he pulls her to his drier chest and kisses the top of her head that rests against him. Gradually her arms slip around him, his warmth pressing through. They stand embraced for a long while, Elizabeth's presence temporarily forgotten. But has Ruth finally pulls away to receive a kiss, she hears a delicate movement from behind.

In turning, her mother appears from directly behind the dining room door sporting a new and pale expression. The realisation hits both Harry and Ruth simultaneously.

She heard everything.

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><p><em><strong>More soon, hopefully before Christmas! <strong>_


	14. Chapter 14

_**Here's a delightfully non-festive update. Thank you for sticking with it for so long everyone :)**_

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><p>They move back in an uncanny and absolute silence to the dining room. Harry notices the tension in Ruth, her posture far more taut than usual and holding powerful eye contact with Elizabeth. It shows no signs of breaking, or retreating to his. She puts herself in her original seat on the double sofa and Harry sits down next to her heavily, elbows on knees. Elizabeth settles opposite just as stiff, a face of solid unforgiving. Harry mildly surprises himself with the fact that he fails to hold her eyes.<p>

"So how long have you kept all of this from me then Ruth? A couple of years?" she growls and shrugs sarcastically, "Five years? Ten?"

"It's been around seven years." Ruth answers. Her words are scarcely audible in the ringing of her mother's through the atmosphere between the three of them. She doesn't watch for the reaction – the horror, and disappointment, twisting Elizabeth's face.

"Seven?" she spits, "Seven years and you never said a thing? Why?"

"You've already said mum; to protect you. Why else?"

Her mouth parts slightly to fire fresh accusations but then she stops, as if she's actually appreciated the truth of her daughter's answer. Swallowing and breaking eye contact, a hand comes to her forehead and Harry watches knowingly as new questions are formed. This war is unlikely to been over within the foreseeable future.

When she returns her glare, the confusion clearly outweighs the fury in her face.

"When you left for Europe, and you didn't tell me where, in 2006... was that really a temporary work transfer?"

Ruth's lips close on themselves. It was something she had blotted out nigh entirely. Another lie – one of the biggest – now finding new ways to force pain onto others.

It's only then Harry's head speaks over his heart and he sits up slightly, deciding there can be no harm in revealing the truth behind her departure. The real reason would act as evidence to Ruth's plea against her mother; their love is real, and always had been. Even then.

Elizabeth see's the answer, 'no', given in Ruth at the same time Harry takes a deep breath. He presents a firmer stare. She stares back, reminding him in a way of Margaret Thatcher, though he could never pinpoint why aside from the authority thing. It's so blatantly accusatory. He sees the imminent wrath shape in her head. In that moment, he knows he won't win, regardless of what he says.

"In a sense, it _was_ a work transfer," he begins. Elizabeth's face set, she keeps scowling unblinkingly towards him. Ruth keeps her teeth clenched."Your daughter sacrificed her job within the service for mine. She'd been set up, and in the end I was faced with a prison sentence. But Ruth took the blame upon herself instead. It was a murder charge, Elizabeth, of a suicide victim. And she fled the country so I could be acquitted and carry on in the service, and she could be free. She gave up everything for me." He breaks, swallows, praying for any form of acceptance of the explanation, even if were just the lifting of her piercing eyes from his own.

But her face only alters between hatred and disgust, nothing more.

"I couldn't tell you that mum," Ruth tries. "You have to understand that."

In a concealed truth, she does really, because it's obvious. The practicalities were never properly in dispute.

She addresses Harry.

"My daughter was exiled, for you. To save you. _Your_ job."

"It wasn't my choice," he clarifies as firmly as words will allow without sounding aggressive.

"She left behind everything for a man who lied to my face about who he was, or what he was, as soon as he met me?" She throws her hands up with her voice raised one more level. "Is Harry even your real name?"

"Yes. Yes, it's my real name." His voice follows. Loud, then louder still. "And I'm telling you everything now."

"What good is that? It's already done!" She shoots upwards with a glare like the sun, and presence of a sky scraper looming over him. He feels every word stab as it's spat from her mouth. Louder, sharper as if she had just been waiting for this. He's seen it a thousand times; this calculated lecture and outpour of hate.

She continues, seething,

"I was so pleased when Ruth told me she was together with someone again. I was so, _so_ pleased... and proud. For a moment I thought what you two had was real."

"How could we possibly be unreal?" he challenges, "You have no idea."

They smash off each other like metal and glass.

"I thought you were safe, that you'd met in a safe job. That you, Harry, were just... I don't know – _normal. _Or honest. I actually had ideas of who you were. Then it becomes so terribly apparent and I'm presented with some... some treacherous, scheming, fat Spook bastard who _encourages_ my daughter to uphold the lying, when she wants to tell me the truth." Her head pivots to Ruth. "I've never doubted you Ruth, not really. But I cannot see the logic in this."

With the insult ringing like a siren in their ears, she takes a sharp turn and marches over to the table, snatching up her handbag.

"This?" Ruth demands as she stands to match the glare perfectly across the expanded distance. Elizabeth forces the bag tightly onto her shoulder, throwing a finger at Harry.

"Him!" She blares. He doesn't flinch. "This... liar. I heard you saying he'd proposed. Why did you say no?"

_Why indeed._

"I'm glad of it by the way, even if it astounds me," she adds quickly. The words drag his eyes down where they remain with a blurry focus, on the floor.

"Well that's the point really isn't it mum. I said no because of the history between us. That, and the circumstances." Ruth starts to walk at a cautious pace, over to where Elizabeth stands, every word falling in such perfect coherence she wonders if in another life, she had memorised it for this very moment. "There's so _much_ history between us, the majority of which I could never begin to explain, and the rest I'm obliged not to. Harry's right; you have no idea, but that's hardly your fault and I wont take offence from it." She sets two inches between her own position and her mothers. "What I will take offence from is having to listen to unjustified abuse towards a man I love dearly and have done for several years, who's never done me wrong and who has certainly never done _you_ any wrong. A general grudge against someone can't excuse those accusations. What did you hope to achieve – if anything – from attacking Harry like that?"

"I want you safe Ruth."

"I work for MI5," she growls, exhausted. "That's never going to happen. Why don't you understand that?"

Elizabeth is the very example of how different the notions of understanding and accepting truly are. She says nothing. She gives away nothing. Without so much as a final glace to the man leaned over and crushed on the sofa, she pads slowly away towards the front door. Every movement is effortless as it is simultaneously boasting an ill triumph. The space she leaves before her daughter is strangely cold.

Hearing the door slam in a defiant metal echo, Harry heaves himself upwards. Though he wont say it, this type emotional defeat is new to him. When he curls one arm around Ruth's shoulder he knows immediately that's she's weeping. As she turns and buries her head to his chest, the tears run so heavily he feels them soak his shirt and tickle the skin underneath. Somewhere between breathes she gives an apology or two and squeezes her grip around him. But the word sorry has practically outlived it's purpose. And they both know this is not her fault. He knows that in weeks to follow, this sudden pain will ebb. For now, he holds her up and places delicate kisses to her head until she meets his lips with her own. His hand moves steadily to the small of her back and hers to his nape.

As they stand, she suddenly realises she hasn't lost at all; she still has him.

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><p><em><strong>Er, Merry Christmas...? Haha. <strong>_


	15. Chapter 15

_**Hope y'all had a good Christmas. On with the sombre fic, which was received quite well re the last chapter, thank you everyone :) Nearly 200 reviews!**_

**_Not gonna lie; I didn't see this coming either. _**

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><p>"Sometimes I question whether we're even human you know."<p>

She lies across his chest, the same one she cried into for half an hour, as they start another attempt at sleep her bed after. He's closer than she will be for weeks – his eyes droop frequently and his breathing becomes slower, but the movement of fingers over his skin rouses him awake a little longer. The kisses ensure he won't be sleeping for a while to come yet.

"Why?" he asks and closes his eyes to enjoy her voice, and her weight on top of him.

"You and I – we put up with so much. I don't know about you, but I found listening to her as difficult as our job can sometimes be. It's that sense of dread, mixed with a complete lack of control." She sighs and he brings movement to his hand again, over her shoulder and smooth upper arm. "I was half expecting her to slap you." Her head bounces gently as he laughs."I mean it Harry. She's slapped strangers before."

"I don't doubt that for a second." He shrugs, "She could've slapped me if she wanted, I wouldn't have done anything."

She kisses the centre of his chest. He grins, as always.

"I know."

She lifts her hand to where to where her cheeks lay pressed against his chest, moving her cooler fingers over his skin creating no particular shapes. This is the first time she has never been fully content in their situation. She admires what's quite possibly his willingness to forgive, having never noted before that it was - to any extent - in his nature. He shuffles slightly and returns his arm to her shoulder blades, mimicking her affections with warmer and larger hands.

"She's quite brave, your mother," he says staring at the ceiling. Though her face is hidden he senses her practiced frown.

"Brave wouldn't be my word of choice. I'd argue 'overly confident' is more accurate description." There is an echo of disappointment that twinges her reply. It's not a romantic or pleasant topic of conversation, but it is however the only thing staining both their minds at present. "Brave," she repeats, "What makes you say that?"

His touching has slowed a little. She notices how his breathing alters when he's considering something too.

"I think she was brave to challenge me. She made it perfectly clear how little we knew of each other but didn't hesitate once on interrogation, or insulting me. For all she knows, I could be a seriously violent man."

"Who said bravery and stupidly go hand in hand?" she asks.

"Erm, someone Summers. David. David Summers."

"Well he couldn't have been more right."

"She's not stupid," he replies in unexpected defence. "She was right to be so concerned. I can't imagine there are many parents out there who would find comfort in the fact that their child might work for the security services."

Her vague circular patterns become lines, tracing across his chest in a horizontal fashion before sliding lower to his middle. For a moment he supposes she's concentrating more so on his body than she is their conversation.

Which seems an odd thing to complain about.

He takes a heavy breath when goosebumps begins to rise along her fingers path.

"Harry," she then says boldly, "Stop defending my mother. She was presumptuous and selfish and unforgivably rude. For some reason, God only knows why, she didn't like you from the onset. Her eavesdropping only aggravated that fact."

He sighs and squeezes her arm gently, eyes closed, adoring the feel of her still against him, keeping his torso warm where the sheets tangle between them from the waste downwards.

"Do you know why she didn't like me, before she discovered everything?" he asks in a slight change of tone, clearly curious. "I thought the first impressions ran rather smoothly."

She hesitates. The insults (or arguably 'concerns') are still raw and painful in her memory.

"Do you want to know the first criticism she made, in your absence?" she questions, almost sure of his answer anyway.

"They can't be worse than what she said to my face," he teases. Her hand pauses on his stomach, spanning out.

"She said that you weren't what she'd expected. She said she'd expected someone taller, and fitter." She leaves a slight pause and swallows hard as the pitiless words ring around inside her head. "She said you were, well to quote exactly, she said you were tubby. And that sent me into one."

He makes no obvious indication of insult, or offence. Of anything really except amusement. His soft chuckling under her head is an immediate relief, despite the fact that she doesn't find it remotely entertaining.

"I'll get down to the gym tomorrow then shall I."

"Harry..."

"She's perfectly entitled to her opinion Ruth. She called me a treacherous bastard to my face, which I think is probably worse." He pauses and moves a hand into her silken brunette hair. "In all honesty, as long as you're happy, I couldn't care less. There are worse things she could've said. Or done."

The ability to forgive is now all the more alien to her.

"She assumed you drank too," she mumbles to his body, faintly ashamed, which he resents. He shrugs.

"She's a good analyst your mother. You inherited her deduction skills, that's for sure."

"Harry I'd really appreciate it if you'd stop complimenting her."

"I'm not going to set out a list of insults," he breathes out, "We've had enough of that recently."

"You don't have to." She says, and shuffles back up to his higher chest. "Just stop praising her."

He obeys the request by replacing the conversation with a series of kisses, with arms that snakes around her bare back and shoulders to hold her to him as she rests on top. Though she beams and chuckles all the way through, the thought of Elizabeth failing to recognise what she now has is still bright and blinding in her head. Harry withdraws, twice, because he can see it in her expression. Of course, in the moment he offers to set things straight by way of a surprise visit, she silences him with kisses. The answer is so clearly no.

"Short term chaos for long term stability," she mumbles to him when they've switched and he's propped up over her.

"Juliet said that to me once."

"It's so very often true," she sighs. "Leave my mother for now. She'll come round, in a few years probably."

"She'll have to come round sooner than that, I hope," he replies. His smile is suddenly wild, in half shadow. It holds her words back. Instead, with a hand upwards against his chest, she just asks,

"Harry?"

He then takes a more stretched pause before he continues. Her eyes focus so intently he almost leaves it unsaid.

But leaving things unsaid once in a lifetime is enough.

So he says it quietly and as plainly as he's capable of, hoping to God that the nerves thumping through his heart aren't as obvious on his face as they are in his head.

"Will you marry me?"

There is a new moment of thunderous silence that sets up between them in the split second afterwards. Then, she beams.

When she weeps he's confident enough not to ask if it's a yes or another no. She kisses him sincerely before she starts to repeat the word 'yes' eleven times anyway, and he's so overcome with the tide of ecstasy his arms give way and land him heavily on her. Then on their sides with arms and legs messily tangled, they laugh together for a good half hour between deep and intense kisses, and whisperings of simply, "I love you."

Falling asleep as a fiancée is perhaps the greatest feeling in the world.

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><p><em><strong>Epilogue to follow...? Gotta end this sometime. Thanks for following through this far!<strong>_


	16. Chapter 16

_**At last, here's the epilogue (that's more like a chapter really) as a **__**huge**__** thank you to everyone who's supported this story to it's 16**__**th**__** chapter. This is the largest response I've ever received for fic, thank you for your infinite patience and accepting the lack of plot for the sake of fluff and angst. **_

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><p>Three months into a blissful and devoted marriage, the sensitive matter of Elizabeth has yet to be resolved.<p>

Harry believes – and has declared on numerous occasions – that the fight is one he will never win. Ruth soon gains the impression it is one he's not particularly concerned with, either. At the wedding she had tried to reconcile the bizarre fallout. Neither her husband or her mother were co-operative in doing so. No conversations were shared between the two, let alone any means of congratulations. It was ultimately a wonderful day and Ruth never questioned that, but the bittersweet air that surrounded her mother and herself when they embraced or when they spoke couldn't have been more prevalent. Harry had made a good job of acting oblivious to it the entire time, much to Callum's amusement.

Still, she understands his indifference to the fallout when they're together like this, supported by each other on the now paint-free sofa in the lush green walled sitting room. The log fire – newly installed by cheesily nicknamed 'Harry The Handyman' – bathes them in a wonderful heat. It's a Christmas card scene minus the snow and various festive decorations, with the exception of the tree which has yet to be packed away for another year. Nestled perfectly on his chest with his loose right arm trailing around her, she gazes across to the pine tree and the tinsel that hugs it. She gives brief consideration to moving it now but when she shuffles as if to get up, Harry instantly tightens his arm around her to prolong the cuddle, clearly, as long as possible.

"I ought to take that down soon," she mumbles to his sleepy form. "Harry." She prods him playfully, "Harry I know you're awake."

A bear like grumble resonates from his chest under her ear making her chuckle. If there is a heaven, she thinks, then this is it.

He then weakens his tensed arm, but she knows him too well to believe he'll let her slip from their embrace when he's so evidently content, and verging on a sleep. The second she stretches out a leg he whips round his other arm and seizes her securely. Her smaller frame is no match for his in the firm lock. And despite the swift speed and accuracy of his move, his eyes are closed.

She tries fleetingly to push against his chest, even now surprised by the muscle under his shirt. Just another attribute beneath the cotton she's fallen in love with.

"Harry!"

He hears the smile in her protest, so proceeds to hug her determined to keep her fixed down before leaning backwards as if to gradually slant so they become horizontal.

"Be quiet and kiss me," he purrs to her, allowing himself a peek of her fire-lit beauty through one half opened eye. Automatically his lips form to a pout. It's irresistible. Almost. She presses a finger against the lips and wriggles hopelessly. Alas, he heaves his shoulders upwards and steals the kiss anyway. Then it really is irresistible and she complies, willingly.

"There's something about this room," she says when they're literally horizontal and he's holding her on top of him, still firm enough to ensure an escape attempt will fail. "You're such a distraction when I need to get things done."

"I helped you with the painting," he insists, eyes finally open and glowing with an increasing mischief. Another kiss, deeper this time. "_Yes_ I was a distraction but what did you expect?"

Her struggles slowly subdue and she settles in the new position, one that – as before – allows her to close her eyes to the gentle thump of his heart under her ear.

"I was thinking about redecorating the bathroom at some point," she says. He puffs up his chest a little as if about to make some grand statement, decides otherwise, and relaxes.

"Mmmmm too much like hard work."

She laughs and gives a soft slap against him.

"I'll do it by myself then shall I."

"You're bathroom's fine as it is." His hand moves lower in unconscious movement to the dip of her back. "What about the bedroom? That could be fun."

A large grin stretches across her expression at both the bedroom comment and the fact that his fingers are now slipping ever so slowly under the barrier of her thin cotton jumper.

"I quite like that idea."

It doesn't matter how well she comes to learn his techniques, he will always fashion a path of goose bumps under his touch. To match his caresses she moves to the left and upwards towards his broad right shoulder – broad enough to support her head comfortably, before releasing his third shirt button and sliding her warm hand under to rest on his skin. These moments are the moments they've waited a lifetime for, and they know are worth every second. No actual words would be said at the same time a million were given in their expressions.

After a few minutes of content silence, she notices – as she does every time – how his breathing has slowed to gentle waves of air in sync with his heartbeat.

"Are you asleep?" she whispers.

"Yes."

"You didn't just hear the doorbell then."

"No," he lies as he fails to hide the smile.

She goes to roll off and he objects exactly as before.

"Ruth leave it. It's probably the bloody Jehovah's Witnesses from last week."

Weakened by the force of the teasing snooze, she is this time able to break free from his attempt at a grasp. The doorbell rings a second time and she disappears from the room, leaving her husband in a somewhat dishevelled and careless position, somewhere between consciousness and sleep.

The visitor is not entirely unwelcome, but Ruth makes no attempt of a loving embrace at all. She looks cold in the December night. She looks frail.

"Mum."

And for once, there is an utter absence of energy between them. Ruth encourages her in with a false interest and does not walk from the hallway. No tea, no wine. They stand and stare at each other half in shadow for a lingering moment.

In a heavy slumber, Harry lies unaware of the activity only nine feet away.

"Harry's asleep," Ruth says with folded arms after instantly assuming he is the reason behind the visit. Elizabeth nods, and takes one step away.

"Oh. I'll come back tomorrow. I wouldn't want to wake him."

Ruth frowns,

"You want to talk to him? Good God."

Elizabeth's eyes flick between her daughter and the sitting room doorframe, glowing and flashing a magnificent orange in the light of the roaring fire.

"I want to apologise," she says finally, quietly. Ruth swiftly decides there is little to be said about something that should have happened months ago. Verging on a professional attitude only, she's gives a defined nod – unsurprised, accepting. Elizabeth sighs. "At your wedding... I saw it was right. Could you tell him I'm sorry when he wakes later, please?"

"I will. I think you should know that he's practically forgiven you already."

"Really?"

Ruth matches the sigh.

"He never speaks ill of you, despite everything. I told you I'd marry a good man. Harry is as good as they get."

Regret doesn't suit her mother. Not now she's older and, apparently, wiser. Before she leaves she offers a smile that's pasted on a pale face of so much guilt it ultimately means nothing. Something tells her that to say much more would only fall on deaf ears. As forgiving as her daughter and her son-in-law are, they are only human.

"I understand that now."

Ruth knows by the tone and the lift of something between them that her mother has no desire to stay. Perhaps she will tomorrow. She pads away as seamlessly as she appeared with a goodbye shared only for the sake of manners, it seems.

When Ruth returns to the sitting room – her enthusiasm dampened but eager to be relit – she finds Harry sprawled out in hardly most dignified manner and at the brink of collapsing off the sofa entirely. She thanks the night that her mother hadn't insisted on waking him, for her apology may have evaporated completely. As cautiously as physically possible, she clambers over him to resume her position but can't help in stirring him awake by the time her head meets his chest.

"Anything interesting?" he mumbles, curling his arm around her.

"My mother."

"Y – what?"

"Hell has quite clearly frozen over; she came to apologise to you."

It's enough to wake him to the extent his words are now coherent, and louder.

"Are you pulling my leg?"

"Nope," her hand finds his chest again as her eyelids fall shut. "She was only here a minute or two. She says she wants to come back tomorrow to apologise in person to you."

As the words sink in he relaxes the muscles that have tensed themselves, and slides back into the sofa that is steadily becoming a bed.

"Why now?"

"I have absolutely no idea." She buries her head into his embrace a little further. "But it's a good thing."

"Yes... yes. Just don't tell her we sleep on the sofa else she'll _never_ have a high opinion of me."

But as she's said before, what difference does the outside world's opinion have on you when all you want from the world in sleeping in your arms.

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><p><em><strong>END.<strong>_


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